Driving Mr Hotchner
by starofoberon
Summary: Response to August 2010 challenge. Morgan and Hotchner drive back to Quantico from NYC post 4.01, "Mayhem." Just a goofy little thing exploring nature of relationships, heroism.


Response to August 2010 "Dealer's Choice" challenge. As always, characters are the property of CBS and the producers of Criminal Minds, yada yada ...

Prompts: Hotch/Morgan, gymnasium, sneakers, medicine ball.

Seemed natural, all things considered, to set the scene in a gym ... but that's exactly what they'll be _expecting_ us to do! So it isn't.

Action immediately follows 4.01, "Mayhem."

**Driving Mr. Hotchner**

Didn't it just figure that Hotchner would buy a black suit and a gray tie?

True, he had attended the Kate Joyner viewing at the funeral home that afternoon, but he could easily have shown up in one of those sober dark charcoal or navy numbers that took up most of the space in his wardrobe. Since he wasn't a pall bearer- in fact he wouldn't even be in town for the actual funeral - he could have replaced the suit that was shredded in the explosion and its aftermath with anything conservative.

Might as well say "anything," because "conservative" was a given with Hotch's entire wardrobe. The events of the last three days had demonstrated that the BAU chief was more likely to experience an improvised explosive device than an explosion of color.

Then he got all snarky on Morgan with that cheap shot about how he trusted Derek with his life but did Morgan trust Hotch with his, which sounded so, so – so freakin' chief-like. Fact was, as any profiler could see, Hotch just wanted to drive so he wouldn't have to talk.

And given the events of the last few days, driving was a whole hell of a lot easier than talking. Talking required thinking. Feeling.

Even if Morgan got nowhere near the nagging question about exactly what kind of a relationship Hotch had had with Agent Joyner (a question the entire team had been muttering and speculating about, especially since she seemed to be pretty much Haley Hotchner with a badge and an accent. Even to being impossibly pushy and expecting Hotch –and everyone else – to jump to her tune).

[Note to self: Why is Hotch attracted to bossy and manipulative little blondes? Now, there's a topic for a profile!]

So, OK. Hotch would drive and Morgan would ride shotgun, gritting his teeth periodically because Hotch switched on his turn signals too soon, stopped too abruptly, and sometimes drove so freakin' slowly that it was a miracle nobody had yet put a gun to his head and snarled, "Move it. Come on, step on it before we get a freakin' parking ticket on the freakin' Beltway!"

And Morgan would make conversation.

Even though he, too, had been battered by an explosion. Even though he was still recovering from the massive infusion of adrenaline it had taken to pilot that massive hell-on-four-wheels ambulance into an open area and pray he could jump free before the terrorists triggered the bomb.

Hotch climbed into the SUV beside Derek, adjusted his seatbelt, and turned the key in the ignition. His face twitched a little when he stepped on the gas. Morgan had seen the size of some of the shrapnel they had dug out of Hotch's right leg. He would be using that leg constantly for the next three hours or so. What kind of bone-headed heroism was he aiming for, anyway?

_Ouch._

"Bone-headed heroics" was exactly the term Penelope Garcia had used when she was talking to JJ about Morgan's mad ride into Central Park. He didn't think she knew that he had heard her.

Or, knowing Garcia, she knew perfectly well that he was there. Might have spoken the words that she was aching to say to his face. Except that she would have said them to his face. Had said things pretty similar to his face. There was no _passive_ in Baby Girl's aggression.

He shifted in his seat.

_Arrggghh. Already with the turn signal half a block early. Hope I don't have to kill him_.

"You know what Reid was saying at breakfast this morning?" he asked, aiming for a bright tone. "He said that Elmer Fudd's lucky that he isn't in the BAU, 'cause all of us have Rs and Ls in our names. 'JJ Ja-woe. Spenseh Weed. David Wossi. Awwun Hotchnuh. Dewwick Maw-gan. Emiwee Pwentiss. Penewope Gawcia.'"

Hotchner ignored him.

The SUV inched off the ramp and onto the Interstate-

_Floor it, floor it, damn it, before that freakin' U-Haul climbs up our butts!_

- and Morgan looked out his window and tried not to fidget. Tried not to stamp his right foot on the floorboards repeatedly. Finally he said, with a half-hearted stab at keeping the sarcasm out of his voice, "This is a really powerful engine, you know. I'll bet you could crank it up to seventy-five, eighty-five, if you wanted to."

_From New York to DC at sixty miles an hour? Why don't I just walk?_

Especially with Mount Rushmore in the driver's seat, he thought with a deep sigh.

Fifty ghastly snail's-pace miles later, Morgan cleared his throat and tried again. "Remember back when they didn't have all these different kinds of athletic shoes? Running shoes and jogging shoes and cross-trainers? Back when they were just sneakers? Or hightops. Or gym shoes. Or even tennies. My mom still calls them tennies."

His mother, in fact, called slow drivers of either sex "little old ladies in tennies."

_And I'm sitting right next to one._

He considered asking to make a pit stop at the next rest area. Maybe once they had been up and walking around for a bit, it would be easier to pry Hotch out of the driver's seat.

"So I finally saw _Chicago_ last week," he said. "Lee Ann from Trace – you know, the hottie with the big hair and all the silver extensions? She and her husband, he's with the DOT, they had me over for pizza and old movies. _Chicago_ and _Liar, Liar_. Sometimes I feel so darned out of it. Hard to keep up with pop culture when the job sucks so much time and everything else out of you."

_Nope, damn it, slipped sideways into dangerous territory there._

"Lots of laughs in the Carrey thing," he said quickly to get the conversation-

_Conversation, my ass. Monologue._

- steered safely back to things inconsequential. "I'm finally warming to him, no idea why it's taken so long. Do you think Gere really did his own dancing?" When absolutely no recognition bloomed on Hotchner's features, Derek added, "You know, in _Chicago_? It's a musical? A movie?"

Another grim half hour passed before Morgan felt up to trying again. "Mom went on an arts-and-crafts tear one year. She was making Christmas ornaments, looked like little globe-shaped cages with gold glitter bars. Then she put in some paraffin and spices. Nutmeg, menthol, mint, like that. Nasty stuff. It smelled like medicine to me. Pop would come home from the gym talking about his workout with the medicine ball and I couldn't figure out what kind of exercise you'd get from one of those stinky little gold medicine ball things. I wondered whether he and Stu - Stu was his partner, cool guy, played, still plays, amazing bass guitar – I pictured Stu and Pop juggling those stupid ornaments—whoa, Hotch, why are you pulling over?"

Hotchner slowed to a stop on the shoulder and folded his hands in his lap. What will it take?" he said in a quiet voice.

"What will what take?"

Hotchner sighed. "For you to shut up."

Morgan considered that for a few seconds. "Listen, we're all just sick about losing Joyner, Hotch. Even though we didn't know her as well as you did. We're all grim and angry because this bunch kicked our asses so long and so hard before we figured out their game. And I didn't want the New York slot, so I don't care about you not recommending me."

"But I did."

"Regardless, Hotch. I'm glad to hear that, but my heart's in the BAU, and you ought to know it by now. But I'd feel a little better if you made some kind of effort to communicate."

"About what?"

"About anything! Anything! Jeez, I'm talking about tennis shoes and Elmer Fudd and Jim Carrey and-" and the words he had meant not to say spilled out. "And let me drive for a while."

Long silence.

"That's it? That's all?"

Morgan sighed. "That's enough."

"Fine." Hotchner released the catch on his seatbelt. "Switch with me." He limped a little as he walked around the SUV. He hadn't been doing anyone any favors the night he joined – hell, _led_ - the team searching the corridors of the hospital's lower levels before the local anesthetic had even worn off. He was hiding his discomfort well, but not well enough to fool his team. Morgan pretended not to notice it anyway.

He buckled himself in. "OK, Hotch," he said, "Now you have to talk." That pig's-ass-stubborn jaw of Hotchner's tightened in defiance. "Or we'll just sit here until the locals show up to see if we're having a problem and I have to tell them, no, I'm just having a fight with my boyfriend. And don't think I won't, man."

Hotch leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes in surrender. "All right," he sighed. "Let me think. One of our neighbors when I was a kid had the tips of three of his fingers missing." He splayed the fingers of his left hand. "I know now that he lost them to frostbite, but back then, he told me that a turkey had chewed them off. Which was fine until November rolled around and my uncle and aunt tried to take me to a turkey farm. No exaggeration: I freaked. Just went to pieces, full-scale tantrum."

"Major meltdown, huh?"

"Major, major meltdown. Jack's never even come close to a full-bore freak-out like that, not even when the edges were pretty ragged on the divorce thing." He let out a long breath. "Happy?"

"Happy," said Derek. He turned on the ignition and sat there fussing with the rear-view mirrors before easing the SUV into gear. "Admit it now. Don't you feel a little better-"

"Morgan."

He raised an eyebrow toward the bureau chief. "Sir?"

Hotchner seemed momentarily lost for words. Finally he grinned, just a little. "Shut up and drive."


End file.
